


Not the Same (Remix of "Different")

by orphan_account



Category: due South
Genre: BDSM, M/M, Remix
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-21
Updated: 2011-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-27 16:13:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,387
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/297687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remix of "Different" by Spuffyduds.  Since she's given explicit permission for these kinds of textual hijinx with her work, I feel that I should acknowledge that this specific work was done without her foreknowledge, approval or endorsement.  If anyone finds it distasteful, appalling or (worst of all!) mediocre, that is completely on my head, not hers.</p><p>The story itself involves Fraser over-intellectualizing Ray Kowalski's desire for the occasional good, hard belt across the ass.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not the Same (Remix of "Different")

**Author's Note:**

  * For [spuffyduds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffyduds/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Different](https://archiveofourown.org/works/197767) by [spuffyduds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/spuffyduds/pseuds/spuffyduds). 



Before Ray, I had never been challenged to hit anyone in a sexual context before. I found our sex life quite gratifying, but Ray needed something else. At first, I only noticed that, when Ray used his mouth on me, I was faster to climax than he was when our positions were reversed. When I penetrated him, he was faster. When he penetrated me, I was faster still while he could barely seem to achieve orgasm at all. Not surprisingly, that was something we did rarely, and only when I demanded it. After a few times of watching him strain and chase after an elusive orgasm while he was deep within my sated body, I stopped asking for that.

  
Even frottage, which I would have thought to be an act of mutuality, was somehow unequal. As we kissed, rubbing against one another, arguably the most pedestrian of our sexual acts, yet to me the most exciting, Ray came faster, came harder when I was on top of him. Not when he was on top of me, or when we were side-by-side, unless we were both standing and he was the one with his back to the wall. He seemed to love it most when I was on top of him. I hypothesized, silently, then tested my hypothesis by pinning his wrists one night. I tried not to be too rough, and in fact did not need to be, as he was gracefully, compellingly compliant beneath me as I rutted against him. He was vocal in his appreciation and beautiful in his orgasmic surrender. Clearly, I had a sexual submissive on my hands.

  
There are clearly far worse fates a man can suffer than to have someone as beautiful, as strong, as Ray wanting to submit to him. Knowing Ray’s courage, I bided my time, waiting for him to come to me with any further desires he might have. While I waited, I continued to dominate him sexually. I pushed him to his knees, pulled his hair while his mouth gave me indescribable pleasure, and resigned myself to not being anally penetrated until I could find the right key, the correct sequence of entreaties and demands that would allow him to construct penetrating me as an act of submission.

  
Before I could do that, however, he came to me with a rare need. Oh, the need itself was not rare, not at all! I know that there are many masochists in the world: people who enjoy pain in all its forms (the rarest kind), people who enjoy pain only in a sexual context, and people who are able, with some effort, to recontextualize nonsexual pain as sexual. I sometimes envy the latter group: my life would be so much more convenient were I able to eroticize pain. The middle group are not common, but hardly as rare as the first group. Having experienced Ray’s submission, I was not surprised when he asked me for pain. Not all submissives are masochists, and not all masochists are submissives, but one person combining both traits is hardly rare. I refuse to denigrate Ray’s desires by analyzing the possible sources of either his submission or his masochism. The only analysis I want to conduct on Ray is determining how I can best help him meet his needs. The rarity came from his willingness to ask, explicitly, for me to gratify his need.

  
“Sometimes, Fraser,” he sighed after a day that had been very difficult for both of us, “I just want to bend over and let someone belt me a few across the ass.” At the beginning of that statement, he looked at me directly, but by the end of it, he had turned away, and I read shame in his statement. His statement that was really a request.

  
Well. That was not really as much information as I would have liked to proceed, to be “safe, sane and consensual,” as I believe the motto has it. But I knew that it was the best Ray could do in articulating his desires to me. Ray, I believed then and I believe now, would have no trouble asking this of a complete or relative stranger, but that he had asked me, come to me, with what he apparently saw as a deviant desire, meant a great deal more than that. He had made it clear from the beginning of our professional partnership that he valued my good opinion, my approval, and he was taking a big risk in asking me for something many would consider to be transgressive.

  
I quickly considered. He wanted pain, but he clearly considered it a shameful thing to want, or at least shameful that he wanted it from me. Ray has always had a bit of an optimistic view of my nature, and an exaggerated sense of my, for lack of better words, goodness and virtue. I sensed that he had received pain from casual sexual partners before, but I doubted somehow that he had even trusted Stella with this. I could not embrace his need for pain enthusiastically, as irrational and judgmental as it probably was, and is, of me; I could not, cannot, condone what I saw, and continue to see, as the inherent self-loathing in his request for pain.

  
If he had asked me to take him roughly, to bite and tear at his skin, during sex, I might not have been so squeamish. There is something animalistic to that kind of pain, a pain I myself would welcome as part of our, my, basic sexual urges. But he had specified that he wanted to be belted. A belt is a human object, and furthermore, applying a belt, and therefore pain, specifically to one part of the body, the ass as he had requested, implied a further level of calculation and ritual that lifted his desire past the natural struggle for pain and survival and into a much more abstract realm.

  
“Very well, Ray,” I said, surprising him. “Strip, and give me your belt.”

  
“Fraser,” he said. “It was just a…a…I dunno…frustration over a bad day.”

  
“If it was,” I replied, being sure to give him a graceful exit, “then I will consider the metaphor as such. But if you do, indeed, want a belt across the ass, you should take your clothes off and give me your belt.”

  
He jumped at my words as though electrified. He naked within seconds, his belt shoved in my hand, his back parallel to the floor as he gripped the back of a chair. I sighed, more loudly than I intended, saddened by his apparent need for punishment. Ray had no need for this kind of treatment; he was, and is, a good man. But while the heart’s reasons may not know reason, the body’s reasons are just as mysterious.

  
Ray interpreted my sigh as something else entirely. He shuddered with his full body, and said, “Come on, Fraser, the faster you do this, the faster it will be over.” And I knew, somehow, just as I always knew, and know, Ray, that his impatience, his desire to get this out of the way, was not because he himself needed the procedure to be slow, but because he thought I did. Because he thought I was humoring him. And I was. Belting Ray will never be my preferred way of spending time, but providing for Ray’s needs? I will always do that, and do that gladly. Even if, as seemed to be the case, he did not want me to be glad to fulfill this particular need.

  
“It will be twenty-five strokes, Ray,” I told him, injecting my voice with a calm implacability I did not feel. “Try not to lose count,” I said, trying to fulfill his need for ritual. “And for God’s sake, stay in position,” I added, not wanting to inadvertently strike him where I did not intend to. I suppose I may have sounded impatient, but really, I was just trying to give him what he wanted, how he wanted it, and as safely as possible.

I began hitting Ray with his own belt, while he stayed in position, counting off each stroke.

He came at twenty-three, and I was happy, knowing that I could give him this much at least.


End file.
